Acts of Kindness
by Gamebird
Summary: Peter helps Sylar re-integrate to society after Brave New World. Sylar realizes his goals, including the one Lydia's power foretold. Friendship story - no romantic pairings.
1. I was just trying to be kind

**A/N: This story was initially a one-shot titled "I was just trying to be kind." I'm expanding it into a multi-chapter story and have retitled it.**

**This is supposed to be no slash (or at least, no more so than the show), but there are parts I can't help but see as a bit slashy. I didn't mean them that way. Set immediately after Brave New World, no relation to any of my AUs.**

Peter had noticed it right away after they got out of Matt's trap, but he didn't think about it right then: Sylar had Nathan's body language. And more than that, he moved in relation to Peter as Nathan had. He stood next to him, so close their shoulders brushed as they walked; he even anticipated Peter's motions from long familiarity, as Nathan had.

It hadn't been an issue while stuck in his head. Sylar had acted like Sylar while there. They'd stood apart, like strangers, and while every now and then Sylar got too close to him, it was usually Peter getting too close to _him_, getting in his face, confronting him, threatening him. Sylar would look away and back down most of the time. The worst he'd do was glare back, trying to salvage his dignity and make some attempt to stand up for himself even though he knew he was in the wrong.

After a few missteps – no, dozens or scores of them, actually, and Peter lashing out at him _every_ time – Sylar still hadn't gotten to the point where he didn't mention Nathan's memories, but he would catch himself and wince each time he did it, apologizing and turning away, almost cringing. Peter had left it alone, letting Sylar punish himself instead of doing it for him. As the apparent years had passed, Peter had started to feel bad about that near-conditioned response and one thing he'd become sure of was that Sylar didn't do it intentionally.

So when they stood together in the carnival, shoulder to shoulder, just as Nathan would have stood next to him, and he felt Sylar's arm brush his own, he didn't say anything. Peter just glanced over out of the corner of his eye. Sylar was watching Claire, paying no attention at all to him. He was standing where he was because it felt natural to him, because maybe that was where he felt he belonged. Peter turned his eyes back to Claire's upward progress and this time, instead of lashing out at Sylar for reminding him of his brother, Peter held his silence.

During the aftermath, Peter had other things on his mind and he lost track of Sylar. The others didn't want him there – that was clear. They hated him and feared him. Unlike Matt, there was no way for them to find out for themselves that Sylar was reformed. It was so easy for it to be just another act and as Peter was well aware – as it was nagging him in the back of his head even now – Sylar was really good at acting.

When the people began to clear away, Peter had looked around, wondering if he should worry, if he should track Sylar down, if he had some obligation or responsibility to look out for him because no one else would. That much was clear. After years in each other's head with no current events to speak of, the only thing they'd been able to talk about was the past. With Nathan's memories off limits and Peter so reluctant to share anything of himself, that left Sylar to fill the void.

He did. He told Peter about himself until Peter was really kind of sick of it, but the silence was worse. When too long had gone without hearing anything in the void, not even another human voice, Sylar would ask Peter if he'd ever told him about the time when… and Peter would say no, he hadn't, even though he had and they both knew that, but it was a polite way for Peter to decline the conversation if he wasn't interested. Sylar was careful with him and patient and always reaching out, somehow managing to do that even when he was giving Peter space.

Sylar had no friends, no living family that he felt anything for, no co-workers or girlfriends or even boyfriends. He didn't know his neighbors and while he liked a lot of the customers at the watch shop, he'd left that life behind years ago now and none of them had known him personally. He'd felt profoundly isolated _before_ he had his ability. Getting it had pushed him right over the edge – not that Sylar put it that way. He never tried, not once, to excuse what he'd done or to say he hadn't been able to control himself, even though Peter knew full well from personal experience with the Hunger that it was not to be denied.

Sylar had no one, but at least in Matt's head, he had Peter. Now on the outside, he still had no one, but Peter had anyone and everyone. No one who knew Sylar looked at him with anything remotely like friendliness and everyone else was a stranger. When Peter saw Emma off and he turned back to look at the mostly empty carnival, he didn't have long to wonder where Sylar had gotten himself off to. The man walked out from where he'd taken refuge in one of the tents, watching from the darkness and relative protection.

Peter snorted softly, face blank as Sylar came up to him with a hopeful, almost infatuated look on his face. Very hopeful. Needy. Insecure. He walked right up to Peter, too close for a stranger, but exactly where Nathan would have stopped. Peter told him, "Come on. Let's go get some coffee." He didn't ask. He didn't need to. He would have asked a stranger. He would have asked Emma. He would have asked her, 'Do you want to go get some coffee?' But he didn't do that now and he only realized his _own_ behavior after the words left his lips. Sylar fell into step immediately. Peter had a question he needed to ask and he didn't want to ask it here.

He couldn't find the right way to word it. They sat together at a tiny table that put them too close to each other. Sylar watched the other patrons with a relaxed posture and a set to his shoulders and head that reminded Peter again of Nathan, not of Sylar. He hadn't sat like that in the city of forever, in the nightmare they'd inhabited.

Peter fiddled with his coffee, turning the cup slowly, watching the liquid swirl. Finally he decided to just blurt it out. "Sylar." He had the other man's attention immediately. "Before that thing with Matt, after Thanksgiving…" He looked up. Sylar gave him a single nod, face neutral. "…at the hospital?" Sylar nodded again, slowly. "What was that?"

"Which part?" Sylar's tone was cautious, but that only made sense. Peter had forbidden any topic that dealt with Nathan, especially his death and events around it. Things were different now, but how different was not known. Peter didn't even know, so he tried to keep himself calm and be tolerant of where Sylar might go with his answer.

Peter elaborated, "The part where you… where you were Nathan. What was that? Who was that? What was going on there?"

Sylar swallowed and now it was his turn to fiddle with his coffee. He hunched inwards, a posture that wasn't Nathan's, but Peter had seen it so, so many times, so often that it hurt to see it again. It hadn't hurt before his admission at the wall. Before then, Peter had always felt a pang of satisfaction that Sylar felt uncomfortable, feeling it was no more than a shadow of his own grief about Nathan and that Sylar deserved every bit of darkness that cast on his soul. But now… now it hurt to see it again and Peter sighed, knowing he'd been… small, in how he'd treated Sylar.

"I… You didn't know?" Sylar looked up at him, still very careful.

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

Sylar looked down again. "I… I shifted into Nathan's form. You didn't think about that?"

Peter blinked a few times. He shrugged and made a confused gesture with his hands. He didn't know what Sylar was getting at.

"You were nullifying my powers, Peter. How did I do that?"

Peter stared at him blankly. How _had_ he done that? He'd never thought about it. Sylar, memories or not, shouldn't have been able to do that. Peter had intentionally retracted the nullification a few minutes later to let Nathan heal, but… he hadn't retracted it before then, when Sylar had shifted. "I… how…?" Peter blinked and inhaled. "No. _**No**_ – why?" The how didn't matter as much as the why and that was the essence of what had been nagging at Peter.

Sylar's voice was very small. Peter had to lean forward to hear him, eyes narrowed and face hard, but Sylar was looking down at his drink. "I was just trying to be kind, Peter."

Peter's nostrils flared and his muscles tensed. He didn't know what he wanted to do, but it crashed over him with certainty: that hadn't been Nathan. He'd thought he'd purged Sylar's memories, but he himself knew memory loss wasn't permanent for someone who could regenerate. The whole thing didn't make sense. He still had questions, just different ones. "How?"

Sylar swallowed, cringing into himself more. "It… It's happened before. When someone I… have hurt. I… I can empathize. After the nails… they hurt. You hurt me. You… you hurt me. You wanted to kill me. And in that moment, I…" He chuckled. "I know this sounds gay as hell and," his voice dropped again nearly to a whisper and Peter had to lean in even more, "please forgive me Peter, but," he spoke a little louder and Peter could lean back a little, annoyed that what Sylar couldn't bear to speak out loud was an apology and that was because Peter had told him he'd had enough of those. Sylar went on, "but at that moment I understood you and I had your ability. It came with the ability nullification." His body jerked in a single laugh. "I laughed at you. I'm sor-" He cut himself off.

Peter said evenly, "So you cancelled out the nullification and all that purging of your memories was fake." Sylar nodded, still looking down. Peter blinked, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. He'd thought that was Nathan. It hadn't been. It had been Sylar - acting. _'I was just trying to be kind,' _Sylar had said. In a softer voice, Peter said, "You were trying to give me a good-bye."

Sylar flinched a little, but risked looking up. Apparently Peter's face wasn't as forbidding as he'd expected, because he didn't look back down immediately. "I thought… I thought if you got to say good-bye, that maybe that would be all. It'd be over. You'd go back to your life and I'd…" He looked down now and shrugged despondently. "I'd go back to mine." He sat up suddenly, as if realizing something. "I'm sorr-, ah, fuck. Anyway, I need to get back to my life. You… have yours." He stood up. "Thanks for the coffee."

He started to walk off and in that moment Peter could have let him go. But in his mind was that Sylar's worst fear was being alone; that hopeful look on the man's face as he came up to him after hiding at the carnival until Peter was free; that Sylar had had his chance there on the roof of the hospital to end Peter and instead he'd tried to be kind, clumsy and strange as his effort may have been.

Peter reached out and grabbed his forearm as he walked by. "Hey. Sit down. Your old life is over. You're not that guy anymore. Talk to me. Please. Tell me what you're going to do with your new one."

Sylar stood there stiffly. He swallowed and said very roughly, "I don't _know_ what I'm going to do, Peter."

"Then sit back down," Peter urged softly. "Will you listen to suggestions?" Slowly, Sylar walked back to his seat and sat. Peter nodded. "Let's talk this through together. We might be out here, no longer the last two people on earth, but we're still in this together. Let me help."

Sylar relaxed as he internalized that he wasn't alone after all.


	2. Shelter from the Storm

**A/N: I had a review that asked for more… so here's the next bit. Like I've said in my review, I'm still trying to work out where this story is headed, what the overall plot is, so don't expect rapid updates.**

They left when the coffee shop closed and found themselves standing on the sidewalk under the night sky. Peter was relieved to see Sylar shift from the Nathan-esque behavior he'd shown intermittently in the shop to be more "Sylar," or at least different. Maybe this was Gabriel he was seeing – the real person behind Sylar's mask of cruelty and ambition. He didn't know.

Sylar's hands were stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched inwards, a little slouched forward as he looked up and down the street uncertainly. That last was the most unlike Nathan of all. Yes, Nathan was uncertain at times, but this wouldn't have been one of them.

Peter considered that. He wasn't acting like Nathan because Nathan probably had no reference point for how Sylar was feeling now. "Where are you going to go?" Peter asked. He'd been shying away from asking that specific question for the last three hours, focusing on the future in a more general and distant way. Of course Sylar didn't have an apartment and although he could go to a motel, Peter shied away from thinking about how he'd pay for it, without money or credit cards or even ID. It had come up that he had none of the documents needed for normal life.

"I… um." Sylar twisted a little back and forth. "I was… I guess maybe I'll go to the beach house. At least for tonight."

_The beach house?_ Peter's mind hesitated to process that. "You mean… our… the Petrelli beach house?" It was owned by the trust fund, but of course Nathan was welcome there and he knew how to get in even if he didn't have his keys.

"Yeah. No one's there. I know the code." Sylar looked at Peter's expression and his eyes narrowed at the perceived rejection. He drew into himself even more. "No. Never mind. I'll go somewhere else." He turned and started to walk away.

Peter caught up to him in three fast steps. He knew a place. "Yeah. Right. Somewhere else. I know where. Come with me." He touched Sylar briefly on the elbow, but there was no need to do anymore than that to try to assert control over where they were going. Sylar had been heading in the right direction for Peter's intention anyway.

"Why? Where are you going?"

"Come on. Just trust me."

Sylar stopped immediately, pulling out of his funk and standing taller. Peter looked him up and down for a moment, thinking maybe he saw a threat there, an attempt at intimidation. Or maybe he was just seeing things, because when he really looked it just seemed more like simple stubbornness. Peter was silent, just regarding him, so Sylar said, "Trust you? _Can_ I trust you?"

Peter paused. He'd been thinking more along the lines of whether _he_ could trust Sylar. It hadn't occurred to him that it might go both ways. Yes, he'd forgiven him and Sylar knew that, but what did that really mean? Not even Peter was sure, but he said, "Yeah. You can."

Sylar exhaled sharply, giving Peter an almost disapproving look for his faith in him. "Where are we going?"

Peter smiled a little, noticing it had changed from 'where are _**you**_ going' to 'where are _**we**_ going.' "Just come on." And he walked off, listening behind him but not waiting. After a moment, he smiled again to himself as he heard Sylar's long strides eating up the distance between them. He fell into step right next to him, too close, as before.

They walked in silence, but Peter's thoughts were busy. He knew that Sylar knew all about him - had Nathan's memories about Peter and that was more than disconcerting, but he hadn't really thought about what that meant in a larger context until Sylar mentioned the beach house. He knew _everything_ Nathan had known. He knew where Heidi and Nathan's sons lived. He knew where Peter's mother lived, when she was likely to be alone and how to get in the house, even assuming he didn't have an ability that would let him make quick work of normal barriers to home invasion.

Sylar knew Claire's phone number, what college she was attending and probably even which dorm she was staying in. In addition, he had to know everything Nathan had known as a senator - all the contacts, the people, the ins and outs and secrets and who-owed-who favors. With shape-shifting, he could be anyone, or more disturbingly, he could go back to being Nathan.

At that thought, Peter reached up and rubbed his forehead as they walked, shaking his head. Sylar looked over at the gesture, but didn't comment. As if to prove Peter's thoughts, in the next block he raised his head and began looking around intently, obviously having realized where they were going. "Your apartment? Why?" But his strides didn't slow, so neither did Peter's.

"Because I'm sleepy and it's late and you need to stay somewhere."

"You… You trust me that much? To let me sleep at your place? I mean…"

Peter looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Shouldn't I? Are you saying you're not safe to be around?" He managed to make himself sound serious, though he thought it was ridiculous. Sylar's tone was so open and raw and doubting that it cemented to Peter that there was nothing to be afraid of. There was no answer, but he didn't need one.

It wasn't like Peter wasn't thinking though, but mainly what he was thinking was that if Sylar wanted him dead, then they wouldn't be walking down the street together. And if Sylar was so unstable that he might act trustworthy now and flip out later, then Peter wanted to know that. He _needed_ to know it so he could do something about it, because someone had to and he wasn't seeing anyone else stepping up to the plate.

He wondered if anyone else even _could_. He recalled something he'd learned in world history class. President Nixon had been an outspoken opponent to Communist China for many years and his negative feelings about the other government were well known. When it looked like conditions might escalate between the United States and China, it was Nixon who made a special trip to China to meet with their leadership and defuse it. He went personally, because it was the sort of impasse that no ambassador or lesser diplomat could handle. China would not trust the US, would not believe their sincerity, unless it was their known enemy himself who came to them and humbly asked to discuss how to keep the peace.

It had spawned a saying: _Only Nixon could go to China_. What it meant was that sometimes, the only person you can trust is the one who has openly declared their dislike of you. Everyone else was too likely to have an agenda, to be trying to manipulate you in an underhanded manner. Only your sworn enemy was likely to be forthright with you and the only person's opinion that mattered, after such a negotiation, was that sworn enemy. Peter had every reason to dislike Sylar. Everyone knew that. They didn't know about the time they'd shared mentally. But the only person who was truly able to vouch for Sylar's sincerity, the only one who might be taken seriously, was Peter. He was also the only person Sylar could really trust.

When they walked in, Sylar took a brief look around like a person tended to do to a place they were familiar with - none of the curiosity and interest that a new place might engender. Peter wasn't in the habit of having guests and he didn't have much in the way of furniture. He did have an old futon from college, which he dug out of the closet. When he walked back in, Sylar was standing nervously at the entrance of the dining room, looking it over, breathing a little too fast. Peter eyed him. Clinically, it looked to him like the edge of a panic attack.

"I don't like it here, Peter. I don't like the memories."

Peter dropped the futon more abruptly than he had to. "Tough," he said harshly. "It happened. I'm not going to let you run from it. I sure as hell can't." He set his feet apart and drew himself up in a challenging posture, but it was unnecessary. Sylar's eyes dodged to the side and he ducked his head. Peter relaxed a little. Obviously Sylar had some feelings about this too, but it was hard to care, given this was where his last illusions about his brother's death had been stripped away.

Peter stalked out of the room and came back, throwing down a pillow and a blanket. Sylar was still standing tensely in the doorway, but his breathing had slowed back to normal. Peter swallowed and softened his voice a little. "Are you going to stay?" He couldn't keep him here against his will and all trust aside, someone needed to help Sylar get back on his feet and do something with his life other than be a menace. He needed people and work and connections. He wouldn't get those if Peter drove him off, because he sure as hell didn't have anyone else he could go to. They'd talked about that.

"Yeah," Sylar said, shuffling a little as he walked over to the futon.

Peter let out the breath he'd been holding. "Okay. I'm going to get some sleep." He tried to think of how he could phrase what he wanted to say next, but his brain didn't help him out with any good way to put it. When Sylar looked up at him, curious about why he was just standing there, Peter blurted out, "Please don't leave in the morning, okay?" He looked away. "I'm really serious about trying to help."

"So I don't kill anyone else's brother, is that it?" Sylar asked bitterly.

Peter's head snapped around and he inhaled sharply, too surprised and angry to do anything for a moment.

"I'm s-" Sylar looked frightened and startled at his own words. "I didn't mean to say that. I shouldn't have said that. I'll be here in the morning." He sat down on the futon immediately, fussing with the blanket and cringing away from Peter. It was the cringing that made Peter turn and go to his bedroom. _This is not going to be easy_, he thought.

Peter tossed and turned for over an hour, having drank too much caffeine at the coffee house. He was exhausted, but not sleepy. Finally he got up and padded out quietly to look in the living room. Even in the dark, he could see Sylar was curled up on the futon, apparently fast asleep. He was too tall for it. Peter had forgotten about that - it had been a little short even for him. Peter leaned on the doorframe and frowned at the man.

Along with Nathan's memories, he had all of Sylar's powers. He could regenerate. He could fly. He could change his face and his form and manipulate things with telekinesis. He'd said he could make things into gold. Peter wasn't sure what else Sylar had as powers, but he felt kind of like he was a normal, mundane person trying to baby-sit a reformed comic book villain, except that most of the villains gained their power from machines or labs or science or money - all things that could be stripped away. The powers of the heroes were usually intrinsic to them, as Sylar's were.

Peter snorted. _Yeah, that's it, Sylar's just a hero who went bad for a little while and now he's back on the straight and narrow path of goodness. If only it were that easy._

Sylar stiffened a little at the sound and turned his head. Peter straightened and quit leaning on the wall. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." He retreated back into his bedroom, but Sylar's voice followed him.

"Can we talk some more?"

Peter came back slowly. "About what? Don't you just want to sleep?"

"You were the one who said you were sleepy, Peter." Sylar reached up and rubbed at his eyes anyway. He'd been out. Peter felt bad for waking him. He supposed it also looked a little creepy for him to be watching Sylar sleep.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Sylar shifted under the blanket and Peter could see that except for his shoes, he'd stayed fully clothed. _As if I needed another indication of how uncomfortable he is, _Peter thought. Sylar asked, "You thought you killed me, didn't you?"

"What?" Peter scrambled through his memories, trying to find a context for that. There were several candidates.

"Back at the Stanton Hotel. You were the president. And… then… there…" Sylar turned away, curling up to himself, but he kept talking. "I was at the bonfire. But somewhere in there, they came up with that shape-shifter's body and must have told you that was me. You knew I could heal, so you either thought they were burning me alive, or you thought they'd killed me with a drug or something else. You were the one who injected me. The simplest explanation would have been to give you a dose of neutralizing compound and tell you it was lethal. That way you wouldn't stick around to make sure I didn't wake up. That way the others could get the body from you and do… what they did. But that means you must have thought you killed me."

Peter scrubbed at his face with his hand. This was more than his tired mind was able to handle at the moment and the cognitive problem laid in trying to think of what this meant to Sylar. He sighed. He couldn't think of a good reason to say anything but the truth. "Yeah. That's what they said. Why?"

If he'd been able to see Sylar's expression, he would have seen him smile. As it was, he thought he could hear it in his voice. "I was wrong. You _**are**_ a killer. You pulled the trigger on Da- your dad and you thought you'd killed me."

They were both silent. Peter didn't bother to reiterate anything about how justified he'd felt he'd been. Honestly, with the syringe in hand, he hadn't known Nathan was dead and he'd also known that Sylar could be taken down with something less lethal than he'd been handed. Or at least, than he'd been told he'd been handed. Noah had also told him it was all he had, so it was that or nothing. He'd had a choice, though if he were honest with himself, and he thought he was, if he'd known Sylar had killed Nathan, he'd have used lethal injection without a qualm. As it was, he'd had qualms. They just hadn't stopped him.

Into the heavy quiet, Sylar asked, "Is that why you want me here? Guilty about what you did? Or… do you think we have something in common?"

Both of those suggested reasons ran all through Peter and he was glad of the darkness to hide his expression. Because he could tell from Sylar's voice and from so long of being in his head that he really didn't mean any malice in what he'd said. His last question was hopeful even. _'We've both murdered people, let's be friends!'_ It was sickening, but Peter held his tongue. _Yes, this is __**not **__going to be easy at all._

Peter coughed, hoping he could keep his voice under control enough that it didn't betray his conflicted emotions. (Well, not that they were all that conflicted - he was angry and not much else at the moment.) "It's neither of those, Sylar. Neither. I'm going to go back to bed."

He walked back to bed and this time he fell asleep.


	3. Rise and Shine

Peter woke up feeling stiff and uncomfortable. His jaw hurt like he'd been grinding his teeth in his sleep. Peter yawned before he managed to get his eyes open, reaching up to wipe the residue of slumber from them. He jerked and tensed as he saw the probable cause for waking.

Sylar was standing in his room, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "Why do you want to help me… _Petrelli?_" He put just enough emphasis on the name to call attention to it, to make it clear he wasn't thinking of Peter so much as 'Peter', but as a part of the family who had manipulated Sylar from the beginning. Sylar's face was intent, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle or read Peter's mind. Or like if he didn't get the answer he wanted, one that made sense to him, he'd crack open Peter's skull and find what he wanted on his own.

Peter felt a lot of emotion in that moment, confronted and threatened in his own bed, which should have been a place of safety. Ultimately his mind only threw up two possible responses. One was to take Sylar's implicit threat seriously and respond to it as it deserved. The other was to blow him off. Peter rolled over with an exaggerated sigh. "Sylar, it's too early in the morning for this shit. Leave me alone." He tried to relax. Doing so became easier as nothing happened. He heard Sylar exhale forcefully and then stalk from the room.

Peter turned his head cautiously and looked back out of the corner of his eye. As far as he could see, Sylar went in the kitchen. A moment later, various sounds confirmed it. Peter rolled over and tried to work out the kinks in his muscles. He pulled himself out of bed and got dressed more fully. Like Sylar, he also hadn't stripped down like he usually did to sleep, but he'd at least downgraded to a t-shirt and boxers. He pulled on sweat pants, ran a comb through his hair and walked out.

The smell of coffee greeted him. Sylar gave him a silent, sidelong look and went back to what he was doing. The taller man was methodically going through the cabinets. Peter would have thought of it as snooping if it weren't so obvious he was looking for something to fix for them to eat. He had a few candidate boxes sitting out already, but apparently oatmeal and cereal weren't quite what he had in mind because he was still looking.

When he exhausted the last cabinet, Sylar turned to him and asked civilly, "Do you want oatmeal or cereal?"

Peter thought about that - not the oatmeal vs. cereal question - but about Sylar fixing him breakfast, about Sylar wanting to fix him breakfast, after that weird wake-up call. He looked over at the coffee pot, perking along, with two cups set out in front, sugar moved out and next to it with a spoon at the ready. There was another of those hated 'I'm sorrys' in there somewhere, but Peter just nodded and said, "Oatmeal would be good. There should be some jelly in the fridge."

"You like it with jelly? Never mind, of course you do. I wasn't thinking." Sylar's voice trailed off at the end and he shot Peter a cautious look.

Peter ignored it and poured the coffee, wondering if Sylar liked his with sugar or he'd set that out because he knew Peter did. One way to find out. "What do you want in your coffee?"

"Don't… don't worry about it, Peter. I'll get it." He was back to being conciliatory and cautious, as he had been nearly all the time in the nightmare. His earlier question, and the threatening undertone to it, was an aberration. Sylar wanted answers and he had no idea of how to get them without resorting to his old methods.

Peter backed off and let Sylar win this one. He collected his cup and went to the dining room, dragging back a chair. He turned it backwards and sat, leaning against the back, and watched as Sylar got a pot going and measured water and oatmeal. He put the cereal back up and closed the cabinets and was fastidiously tidy. He wasn't really that way - Peter knew that, he'd seen it in his mind - but he was nervous and when he got nervous he fussed with things.

After watching too much fidgeting, Peter said, "Thanks for the coffee."

"It's _your_ coffee, Peter." When it seemed the silence was threatening to end the beginning of a conversation, Sylar laughed nervously and said, "It's, uh, seems weird that the food hasn't gone bad after all these years, right?"

"Yeah." Peter was noncommittal.

"But I guess you knew that. You always knew it wasn't real. Nothing… nothing there was real."

Peter tilted his head a little. Sylar was being anxious, like something was wrong. Of course there were a lot of things to be wrong here. "Nothing?"

"Well… you didn't really answer me… when I asked."

"I didn't think I needed to." Peter's voice was even and calm. "This didn't seem to be bothering you yesterday."

"Yesterday… I don't know. You should call Emma and make sure she's okay." He got out two bowls and the jelly.

"I will. Not right now."

Sylar scratched at his neck, turned off the stove and shared out portions. He added a generous dollop of jelly to one, then carried it to Peter. The other he carried over to the coffee pot and added sugar, then poured his coffee, also adding sugar, but not as much as Peter would have. He turned to face Peter, who was still watching him, always watching it seemed, and said, "Do… um… I don't want to eat out there."

"It's okay. This is fine. I need a spoon though."

"Oh! Yeah." Sylar handed him the one that had been in the jelly and then leaned against the counter, stirring the sugar into his dish with the sugar spoon and then blowing on it to cool it.

The conversation died again. Peter considered resuscitating it, but he was distracted by his phone ringing. He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID. It was his mother. He answered, "Hi, Mom."

"Hello, Peter," his mother's voice said through the phone. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine."

There was a long pause, then she asked, "Is he there?"

Peter looked up at Sylar, who was trying to pretend he couldn't hear the conversation. "Yep. Standing in my kitchen eating breakfast." Sylar shot him an uncertain look and stood up a little straighter. Peter shook his head a little at him. Sylar didn't need to worry or leave. Peter asked the phone, "Why do you ask?"

She didn't really answer him, but then again, she rarely did. "You don't have to do this, Peter."

"Do what?"

"You don't have to help him."

"Yeah? You said I didn't have to go find him either and he saved Emma. And what else am I supposed to do? He doesn't even have any ID. Should I let him just go out and mug someone for theirs?"

Now Sylar looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Peter, he's not your responsibility."

"No, you're right. He's yours. Yours and the Company's, but I don't see anyone trying to help him. And I mean really help him, not just lock him up somewhere for months and feed him neutralizing pills like you did when my powers got out of control!" His voice rose in anger at the end. There were a lot of things in Peter's past he was unhappy about.

There was silence in the apartment and on the phone. Sylar stared at Peter, unaware of that incident from either his own knowledge or Nathan's memories. Finally Angela said very genuinely, "I'm so sorry, Peter. I thought we'd put that behind us."

Peter was still angry as he answered, "Have we? Because I'm ready to put it behind us. Can we? Can we do that mom? Put the past behind us?" He was still upset, but there was a note of pleading, almost false, almost genuine.

"Yes, of course we can."

"Good." He sat up straighter. "Then I'm going to bring him over this afternoon and I want you to help us get an identity set up for him."

"Peter!" she sounded exasperated, realizing he'd manipulated her into a corner. "You can't…"

"Yes, I **can**. Mom, he was Nathan for weeks - going to lunch with you, working in his office, maybe even visiting his kids. You won, you know. He's not the same guy as he used to be. You said he's not my responsibility - fine. Show me that the Company is willing to step and do something themselves to fix this mess they caused."

"That's not Nathan anymore! That's Sylar!" she nearly hissed.

He looked up at the man in the kitchen who had given up pretending not to be listening. Their eyes met briefly. "I know."

"You don't have to forgive him!"

"Mom, you had the same dream I did. You know I already have." He paused for a moment, hearing her sigh heavily on the other end of the phone. It hadn't seemed possible when he'd had the dream. "We'll come by after lunch. How's one o'clock sound?"

She sighed again, this time defeated. "You need to bring a photograph, a passport photo. You can get one at most copy stores."

"Okay. Thanks Mom."

"You're welcome." She didn't sound welcoming. She sounded bitter. "Be _safe_, Peter. Good-bye."

"I am. Bye." He hung up and pocketed the phone. After a pause and a few bites of oatmeal, he addressed Sylar, "So I was thinking we'd go out and get some money, then some stuff for you and I'm going to need a couch for you to sleep on instead of the futon. Mom says we'll need a passport photo of you. Then we can grab lunch and head on over. I have to be at work at four. You think you can handle getting anything else you need on your own after that?"

"What are you going to do if you come home and I'm not here?"

"Be worried. Lie on my new couch and wonder where the hell you are and what I need to do about it, if anything. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave a note. We can pick up a phone for you too, one of those pay-as-you-go things. You don't have to have a credit card or anything for them." He paused. "I won't be back until around nine or ten."

"That's pretty short hours."

"A.M."

"Oh."

Peter ate quickly, thinking they had more to do than they had time to do it in.

Sylar said, "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"About what?"

"Helping me. You don't have to, you know. I'm an adult. I've made it on my own for years."

"Do you _want_ to be alone?" Peter shot back, declining to point out the number of dead bodies Sylar had caused when he'd stepped outside of society's bounds and 'made it on his own.'

"I… no. But it's not like I can't-"

Peter shook his head. "It's not about what you can and can't do. I know you _can_ do it. It's about… something else."

"Which is?"

Peter huffed. He didn't like being made to say this and he was pretty sure Sylar was drawing it out intentionally, just to hear him say it. He glanced up at Sylar's face and saw he was right. It made it better, somehow - amusing maybe. He recalled last night that Sylar really hadn't understood at all why Peter wanted him there.

It occurred to Peter that maybe it would help to just spell it out. "I want to help you because you need help. I like helping people. It's why I'm a paramedic. And when I'm a paramedic, some days I'm helping the victim of a crime and some days I'm helping the criminal after they've been brought down. _It doesn't matter_. They both need my help." Sylar just looked confused.

Peter huffed again. "Okay, fine, maybe this will make sense to you. If I let you roam around on your own, I'll never know if you might start killing people again and causing more problems that I need to fix. So yeah, I suppose you're right," he said angrily, "I just want to make sure no one else loses their brother. That's not the only reason, but I guess it's the only one that you'd understand!" He practically spat the words out. Sylar backed up a step, not understanding where the anger was coming from. Peter added, just as angrily, "Because it seems to be some kind of fucking _problem_ that I have some shred of sympathy for you."

Peter got up and stalked over to the sink to rinse out his bowl. Sylar gave him a wide berth. _Freaking sociopath!_ Peter thought, fuming. _I'm trying to be nice and you can't see it as anything but self-serving because that's all you understand. This is hopeless._

"Peter?"

He put the dish down and leaned on the counter in front of the sink, head hanging. "Sylar. I'm just angry. I'm angry the world isn't the way I want it to be. I'll get over it. I'm sorry I'm lashing out at you. I know you're doing your best."

"You don't have to patronize me, Peter. I just wanted to say thank you."

He stood up and turned just in time for a knock at the door.


	4. Light of Day

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay in updating. Your many reviews and kind encouragements have led me to dust this off and work on it a bit more, now that my personal issues are a little more settled. I am also absolutely sure I had written this chapter before and then, I guess, lost it, because I can't find it now.**

Peter went to the door and glanced through the peephole. He could see the top of someone's head, straight blonde hair that could only belong to one person. This was probably the least desired person who could possibly show up on his doorstep this morning. Just about anyone else, he'd know how to deal with.

He put his forehead against the door and sighed, trying to clear his head of the latent anger that was infesting it this morning. The last time he'd seen Claire, she'd been heading off cheerfully with a gaggle of reporters, looking exceedingly pleased to be the center of attention. Peter had his doubts about how well her stunt was going to play out. Sylar, on the other hand, was thrilled.

They'd talked about that at the coffee shop. In fact, discussing Claire and the ramifications of what she'd done had taken up probably half of their time. Sylar had an inappropriate fixation with Claire, from Peter's point of view, something that had become painfully clear when Sylar had told him about his life. He was still trying to figure out the meaning of the tattoo of Claire's face.

Sylar had, at least, given up the idea that she might be romantically interested in him. The pencil in the eye had finally driven that point home. Had it not, Peter would have had yet another reason to abuse him in the nightmare, but thankfully that was past. The other man was still convinced she had a greater importance to him, because he didn't think that going to Matt afterward and being trapped behind the wall was his "destiny." Sylar thought, and he'd said it over and over again, that Lydia's ability had indicated how he was supposed to get a friend, a connection, someone who loved him. He'd assumed the nightmare was his punishment for screwing things up somehow with Claire, mishandling it. He'd replayed the events until Peter was tempted to put it on the list of things Sylar wasn't allowed to talk about. But he didn't, because it was a mystery that puzzled Peter too, when he thought about it.

Sylar didn't think he deserved a friend. Peter had been inclined to agree, but even in the dream, he'd kept his mouth shut about that. There were some things too cruel to say to someone else, no matter what. '_Maybe I deserve all this aloneness_' had echoed in Peter's head quite often, almost like Sylar was saying it over and over in his subconscious and Peter was picking up on it unintentionally. Or maybe because Peter had agreed with him.

Thinking back on it now, Peter felt a twist in his gut he'd never allowed himself to feel in that nightmare universe. Sylar had gone to Claire, a person whom he admitted hated him and he knew she felt that way, because he was trying to find a connection. He was _that_ desperate - desperate enough to seek out his enemies for help, to surrender his abilities, to let himself be trapped alone in an eternal prison. He'd mapped out the tenuous and coincidental similarities between himself and Claire, and belabored them to death to Peter in the nightmare, confused as to why she would befriend him, knowing that she had not, but certain she was the key. Peter didn't understand it either, but now here she was, outside his door. Who was he to question destiny?

He opened it. Claire looked up at him with a sad face. She was so defeated and demoralized that he couldn't help but step forward and hug her. She made a noise, an "Oh!" of surprise and welcome, embracing him in turn.

"Peter, I have had _such_ a night. It's been endless. Can I crash here for a little bit? I just need somewhere to hide out."

He hesitated, conflicted. He couldn't imagine she would have a good reaction to the man standing in his kitchen. Peter had stepped outside trying, discreetly, to stall the inevitable.

"Please?" she begged. She looked past him, seeing some movement, and her eyes flew wide. She pushed past Peter, surprising him with her sudden turn of boldness. "What is he doing here?" she said, enraged, her demeanor fierce.

Sylar cringed back from her as thoroughly as he ever had from Peter, acting like her words had been a whip across his face. Peter stepped inside and very quietly shut the door behind him. He looked between the two, trying to read the dynamics, because Sylar's reaction had disarmed Claire almost immediately.

She'd backed away, brow furrowed. She looked around the room, taking in the futon and rumpled covers. Her head turned back to Peter, questions in her eyes. "Did he _sleep_ here?"

And all of a sudden, in that instant, it hit Peter - Claire, Lydia's message, destiny. It was true, right in his face and he hadn't even seen it. Claire had driven Sylar to Matt and created a situation that allowed Peter to have years to cool down within the space of a few hours. It had trapped him in Sylar's mind and forced him listen to the other man, learn about him in turn, discover what had motivated him and find out that Sylar's claim, so many years ago, that they were similar, wasn't entirely untrue. He'd become a person to Peter, a person with hopes and dreams and fears and regrets - oh so many regrets. She'd been the key.

Peter straightened, absolutely certain he understood what had happened, even if he didn't really understand why. He could barely fathom it, but there was the mussed futon on the floor. They'd eaten together. They'd talked for hours over coffee. He'd stood up to his mother on Sylar's account and now, he knew, he was going to stand up to Claire. All this he'd done for the man who had killed his brother and so many other people. These weren't things you did for your enemies, or even for strangers. Peter realized he was already going through the motions, even if his heart hadn't caught up to it yet.

He didn't _want_ to count Sylar as a friend, but that's what he was, or was becoming, or maybe would be. Because somehow, Lydia's foretelling had predicted this. And just as Peter hadn't bothered to try to find some other way to rescue Emma - he'd gone straight to Sylar because the dream said that was what he had to do - he now surrendered to the inevitability that he and Sylar were going to be friends.

"Yes, he did."

Sylar moved towards the door, the one Peter was still standing in front of, and said quietly, head down, "I should leave. You need to spend time with your niece."

"No," Peter said simply, adamant in his refusal. "You _do __**not**_ have to leave. No one is going to make you unwelcome here. Claire," he said, turning his eyes back to her and seeing her less hostile than he'd expected, "you know Sylar was trying to get better. He's changed. He's promised he'll never hurt anyone ever again. I believe him, and I vouch for him 100%."

Both Sylar and Claire stared at him, slack-jawed. It was such a total endorsement. He'd said a variation of it before, to Matt, but this wasn't a plea to be trusted - it was a statement of fact of where Peter stood. If he was supposed to be Sylar's friend, then by God he'd be Sylar's friend, at least until Sylar proved he wasn't worthy of it.

"But," Claire said, her eyes shining, "Nathan…"

"At some point, we have to let go of the past." His voice softened. "There are so many things, things I almost did, that it's only by the grace of God I didn't become a worse villain than he ever was," he said, indicating Sylar. "And Nathan… he had his own dark moments… the things he wanted to do to all of us." Peter swallowed roughly. "I'm not saying the past was right. I'm saying that the future can be."

They were all silent for a long moment, digesting this. Sylar was gazing at Peter with the same look he'd worn when he came out of the carnival tents - a look of intense hope and vulnerability, barely able to believe that someone was taking his side and believing in him. He swallowed and straightened when Peter looked over at him, his face relaxing a little and pulling up to his full height. Then Peter realized - Sylar didn't flinch from his gaze this time - quite the opposite. One side of Peter's mouth quirked up. He turned his head to Claire, who was watching Sylar's transformation.

She turned to Peter and shrugged almost whimsically. "Okay." She shook her head and waved one hand dismissively as she walked off into the kitchen. "Alright. Fine. Whatev. Is that coffee I smell?"

Sylar's hand leaped up, one finger extended in a 'wait' gesture to Peter. Peter tilted his head slightly and said nothing, giving Sylar his moment. Sylar followed her into the kitchen. In a low, tentative voice, he offered, "I made some just a little while ago, but we drank it. How about you go talk to Peter, and I'll make us all some more?"

There was a longer than necessary pause, and then, "Sure." Claire edged past him in the kitchen and walked back out. She gave Peter a furrowed brow, a grimace, rotated her index finger at her temple to indicate 'crazy' and then hooked her thumb back at the kitchen.

"Give him a chance," Peter said evenly. He looked past her where he could see Sylar's elbow and back as he busied himself with the coffee. Peter jerked his head towards his bedroom. It was the most privacy they could get and still be in the apartment. He and Claire walked in.

She flopped immediately on the bed, then wriggled up to the top and propped herself up with his pillows. He smiled a little and sat on the end corner, canted to face her.

"I can't believe he slept on a futon, on your floor," she chuckled.

"I only have the one bed, and I'm certainly not going to give it up for Sylar."

She stared at him, eyes bugging suddenly.

He turned back, looking at the partly open door, wondering what had caused that reaction. He hadn't wanted to close it entirely and possibly make Sylar feel they were hiding, but at the same time he wanted to lend Claire a degree of privacy for whatever she wanted to say. He turned back to find she'd rolled over and was stifling her laughter with his pillow. She came up for air long enough to say, "Oh, I sure hope not, Peter. Oh God no…!"

He thought about what he'd said and turned his head to the side, blushing to his roots. He decided the best course of action was to pretend he had not said something that could be interpreted that way. When Claire's laughter finally subsided, Peter cleared his throat and said, "We're going out to get a couch today, and some other stuff. If you need to crash here, I'll set up the furniture delivery for this afternoon, late, and he won't be back here until like three or four."

"Do you _really_ think you can trust him?"

"Yup." Strangely, he felt very sure of that and also sure that he could trust Sylar more than he could trust any other member of his family - her included. What decided him was the look on Sylar's face when he realized that not only had Peter forgiven him, but he was supporting and defending him. The questions and the doubts that had burned in Sylar's mind this morning, leading to that odd confrontation - maybe this would give him the answers he wanted. Peter hoped so.

Claire sighed and stared at the ceiling. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any crazier. Everything's changed, Peter."

"Ha." Peter gave her a wry smile. "I seem to remember predicting that. So, tell me what sort of crazy stuff happened last night, that makes you think you need to hide out here at my apartment?"


	5. High Noon

**A/N: Little more action this chapter, less introspection.**

Claire sighed melodramatically. "Everything was fine at first - really, it was. I gave, I don't know, seventeen interviews." She cocked her head up to look at Peter. "I'm guessing, you know?" He nodded. He was familiar with her exaggerations, though seventeen was definitely possible. Actually he figured seventeen wasn't an exaggeration. She'd had a dozen reporters around her when she'd left and probably at least that many more would have found her through the night. He had the impression she hadn't slept. He was pretty sure she was wearing different clothes, but what she'd had wouldn't have been presentable after tossing herself off a Ferris wheel.

"And I did demonstrations. I must have cut myself a hundred times, all over my arms. A few of them made some rude comments about that, but whatever. Most of them were fine. They just filmed it, asked questions, that sort of thing. I didn't mention anyone else who had abilities. At least, not specifically."

He could imagine the rude comments. He'd wanted to make some of his own at various points in the past, but he hadn't. He'd wondered, at times, what caused her frequent injuries. He wondered if he needed to be worried that she hurt herself so cavalierly, like it didn't matter. Was she trying to say something? Was it a plea for help? Even if one was numbed and insulated from the pain, it was… pathological not to avoid getting hurt. People didn't feel tears and rips to their clothing and yet they avoided damaging it.

He was also relieved that just because she was outing her own ability to the world didn't mean she was outing others. Her ability didn't look dangerous, unlike most powers. Maybe people would assume hers was the only ability out there. After all, it was fairly concealable, especially if she hadn't tried to sell them on the idea that she was immortal.

Claire leaned back and threw an unblemished arm over her eyes. "I was supposed to go in for one of those big morning talk shows earlier. But, I don't know, around 4 or 5 AM some guys from the government came by and-"

Sylar rapped on the door three times, then walked in. He was carrying a coffee cup in one hand while two others floated in the air in front of him. One drifted over to Peter, who had to smile at that. "Show off," he muttered. Claire wasn't the only one with a penchant for dramatics. The second went to her, who sat up and picked it out of the air carefully, like it might spill on her at any moment. She held it stiffly until she was certain it was under her control, then leaned back against the headboard.

Sylar leaned against the wall with elaborate nonchalance, cupping his drink and blowing on it to cool it. For a long moment, no one spoke as the former serial killer's presence loomed large in the confined space. Claire looked pointedly at Sylar, who looked back calmly, blatantly testing the limits of Peter's hospitality. It seemed certain that if he were asked to leave, or if Peter even intimated that he wanted Sylar gone, he'd vanish. But Peter hadn't. Finally Claire shifted her eyes to Peter. Sylar's gaze followed. Peter swallowed and cleared his throat. He said to her, "Do you want some privacy?"

She looked back at Sylar and huffed. "Why would he even care what was going on with me?"

Peter said evenly, "He might know something about what the government's up to. They're going to have a response to this. They can't _not_. It's too big."

"And he's willing to share that with us why?"

"Maybe I want to help you because you need help," Sylar said immediately. Peter's head snapped around to him, realizing the man was parroting his words from earlier that morning. He raised an eyebrow at Peter's surprised expression, as if to say '_I __**was**__ listening,_' then turned back to Claire. "Maybe I have some shred of sympathy for you… and your situation."

Claire exhaled heavily and looked away. She did it only for a moment though, glancing back to let her eyes dart between the two men. She didn't know what Sylar's expression to Peter had meant, but she'd seen Peter's prompt reaction.

Peter smiled, shook his head slightly and said to her, "So what happened then?"

She settled back into the pillows more and took a drink of her coffee. "They wanted me to go with them," she looked to Sylar, "these government guys - but I told them no, I had these big interviews to do and I'd go with them afterward. They asked me what interviews and like an idiot, I told them. So they left. Then I finished up, grabbed breakfast and went to the studio, to find they'd cancelled! The government guys had come by and told them they couldn't interview me! The nerve!"

"What government guys?" Sylar asked quietly.

"I don't know. Department of Defense, Homeland Security, whatever. They gave me business cards." She reached into her pocket and pulled out an impressive handful of cards and crumpled notes. She sorted through them. "Most of these are from those reporters… ah, here's one. No, three. I'm pretty sure there's a fourth one…"

Sylar walked closer and looked. She gathered the four and offered them to him. He took them and retreated back to his spot against the wall, where he studied them carefully.

Peter watched him for a moment, thinking about Nathan's involvement with Homeland Security, the secret meetings, the confidence of the president himself - and all those memories, all that knowledge, was in Sylar's head now. He shook it off and looked back to Claire. "Your interviews were cancelled?"

"Yeah. Then the g-men tried to pick me up there. They were polite, at least, but they were really persistent. I told them I'd scream and mace them if they laid a hand on me… and then I ran."

Peter's brows rose. "Did they chase you?"

"I think so, but I don't get tired easy, you know? I didn't slow down until I was pretty sure I'd lost them. Then I cut back here. It was the closest safe place I knew of. I figure if I just hide-"

"Do you have your cell phone?" Sylar cut in.

"Yes. Why?" Claire started to glare at him, then gave it up and just huffed. She rolled her eyes and dug it out. He stepped over and took it from her, his fingers stroking over hers unnecessarily. She jerked her hand away. "Creep!"

He smiled. "Thank you, Claire." He flipped open her phone briefly, then shut it. To Peter he said, "We needed to run errands. We should leave immediately. _**Now.**_"

For a moment, Peter considered arguing, he considered pulling the same knee-jerk uncooperativeness that Claire was pulling and giving Sylar static. He wouldn't have argued if Nathan told him that and in fact, Nathan would have spoken to Peter in much that tone of voice - no explanations, just _'do what I say'_.

Peter put aside those questions and asked a different one. "Do I have time to get dressed?"

Claire interjected, "You're going to do what he says?"

Sylar ignored her. He put out his hand to Peter and said, "Take shape-shifting. Change into Peter Petrelli wearing whatever clothes you need."

Peter stared at him for a moment. First, he'd never had anyone dictate his abilities to him. Second, he didn't know you could use shape shifting that way. And third… he mentally cut off his objections, put his hand on Sylar's, and took the ability, trusting blindly.

While Peter changed his outfit, Sylar pocketed the business cards and turned back to Claire. "They're tracking you by your phone. There's a chance they haven't triangulated it to this building yet. If we leave quickly and take this with us, we might be able to throw them off. You can rest. But I need your phone. And this." Sylar morphed into a second Claire Bennet.

She? He? Whatever… Sylar looked at Peter and jerked his head towards the door. "Let's go."

Reality, in Peter's world, seemed awful damned flexible. His brother had been able to fly. His mother could tell the future, accurately. His niece regenerated and was apparently immortal. He had friends who could stop time or read minds. That Sylar, 6'1 or 2, very masculine, someone he'd _still_ kind of rather sock in the face, had just turned into Claire, a foot shorter, very feminine, and whom he had occasional inappropriate feelings for that he tried very hard to quash, was oddly one of the tougher things to swallow. He managed it… mostly. "Okay."

They left out the front door and hurried down the stairs. Sylar murmured in Claire's voice, "Tell me if you see anyone out of place, anyone unfamiliar." Peter nodded. They didn't see anyone at all until they got out on the street. Sylar took one quick sweep of the road and then turned right, walking fast. Peter followed. An unmarked van pulled up before they'd gone thirty feet.

Peter put his hand to the small of Claire's back and whispered harshly, "Run!" Then he realized that was Sylar and jerked his hand away. Sylar did not run. Instead, he immediately went to one knee and grabbed Peter's hand, yanking him closer. "Cover me. Stay between me and them."

Peter tensed. His instincts screamed to get out. They were right there, looking right at him, now looking at Claire… no, not Claire. There was some balding man kneeling next to him. Peter blinked. The man was quickly working on the phone, parts disassembling faster than his fingers could accomplish. It took less time for Sylar to finish than for Peter to figure out what he was doing, which was merely removing the battery from the device. He stood up and pocketed the components, having taken the guise of Doyle.

Two men had exited the rear of the van, carrying a device with some sort of antenna. Peter started to fall back towards the wall. Sylar grabbed his shoulder and steered him to the curb, saying quietly, "Never cut off your avenue of escape, Peter." He dropped his hand downward and clasped Peter's hand. "Speaking of which, take flight."

Peter switched, letting himself be led. Things were happening too fast to argue, or even question. He knew, from being on disaster sites and in emergency services that chain of command was very important. Stopping to argue about the best course of action meant that no course at all was being pursued. He had faith that Sylar would make a sound decision.

"Just wait," Sylar said. The men walked right past them, muttering to each other about having lost the signal. Peter and Sylar stood on the sidewalk watching them, much like various other bystanders who had paused in their routines, curious about the van and the men with the odd device.

To Peter, Sylar said, "In a few moments, come pull me away."

"What?" Peter said.

If Sylar heard him, he didn't respond. Instead he looked up and down the street, then walked over to the van. "Hey! Hey you!"

The driver glanced at him, then ignored him.

Sylar went on, "Hey, can you move it? I have a cab coming. You're in the way." Peter decided that perhaps Sylar was picking a fight. He was a little unclear at which point he was supposed to interfere.

"Beat it," the driver said.

"Hey!" Sylar said, sounding affronted now. "What service are you with, anyway? Clogging up the streets like you own the place!" He seemed genuinely angry. Peter could see the other two were coming back, having noticed the scene. If he didn't interrupt soon, there was going to be a problem. He tugged at Sylar's sleeve. The other man kept speaking with, "When my cabbie gets here, I hope he runs you over!" He turned back to Peter suddenly and said, low and urgent, "Now." Then he turned back and made more vaguely threatening, loud comments.

Peter grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. The other two men, seeing that the disruption was being dealt with, went on to the back of the van and climbed in. Sylar gave up his protests immediately and walked swiftly down the sidewalk. Peter trailed him a little.

"Keep up," Gabriel said to him curtly.

Peter immediately double-timed and caught up with him. He did not appreciate playing follow-the-leader. He felt like a sidekick. At that thought, he remembered the feeling the night before that he was a normal guy trying to handle someone with super-powers. It was so strange it made him smile.

They turned a corner and Sylar changed shape back into his native form. A moment later, he aggressively hailed a cab, managing to catch the driver's attention. They got in. Peter looked back apprehensively. "Don't look back," Sylar told him crisply, then leaned forward and gave an address to the driver. They took off. Peter turned around and pursed his lips, biting his tongue to keep from saying something sharp in response. Things had turned out well, no one had been hurt and they were getting away clean.

He thought about how long Sylar had spent on the run - from the cops, the feds, Homeland Security, any number of revenge-seekers, himself… So some things had become second nature to the man. He still gave orders like Nathan did and that did not fail to rankle.

Peter swallowed his pride though. He'd just told Claire he trusted him. For those not to be empty words, he needed to put them in action and not second-guess. He looked over to see Sylar inserting the battery into the phone again. Peter asked, "What are you doing? They'll track us."

"Exactly. We can't have that location be their last known signal. If it is, they'll scour the area and turn up your name, probably within six hours if they have as many resources devoted to this as I suspect. Then they'll be in your apartment twenty minutes after that. As long as we're moving we're safe. I'll disable it every five to ten minutes for a minute. That should confuse them. Then when we're downtown, I'll take the battery out and leave it out."

"Okay." Peter nodded, glad to be getting an explanation. Of course, this was the first opportunity Sylar had to give him much of one. "Is she going to be safe?"

Sylar shrugged. "She can't be killed. She's always safe."

"That's not what I meant."

Sylar smiled at him slyly. "I know."


	6. Time of Day

Peter watched Sylar fiddle with Claire's phone all the way downtown. When it was on, he scrolled through her contacts and snooped on her. Peter considered objecting, as it would surely offend Claire to know Sylar was doing that. But he didn't. When the phone was off, Sylar toyed with the components, levitating the battery and letting little sparks snap from his fingertips to the suspended unit. Peter considered objecting to that too, as it would surely damage it. But he didn't. Instead, he sat there quietly and watched the other man. He thought about how this was Sylar being Sylar. Really… it was a bit socially graceless, but harmless. Peter could work with this.

As they passed between the tall buildings, getting into downtown proper, Sylar's head rose and he told the cabbie, "Tell me when we're three blocks away." A few minutes later, he was given notice. He took the battery out for the last time and put the parts away in different pockets.

They exited the cab in front of a prestigious jewelry store. Peter looked up at the place after paying their fare and asked, "Why here?"

"I bought Heidi a-" Sylar flinched from him, catching himself. He blinked and looked around suddenly. "We should go somewhere else. I wasn't thinking." He turned and raised his hand for another cab.

Peter grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Hey! It's okay. We don't-" He took a deep breath. "I'm over that." Sylar looked at him like he wasn't convinced, so Peter turned back towards the store. For a moment they just stood there and looked at the façade together. Eventually Peter asked, "What did Nathan get here?"

Hesitantly, Sylar said, "A necklace and two bracelets. And… some things for… other women. He liked the place. They were discreet."

Peter looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then back at the store. "You know everyone he ever slept with?"

Sylar shifted uncomfortably and nodded.

Peter sighed. Conversationally he said, "That's kind of creepy. You know my own brother better than I did."

Sylar didn't know what to say to that, so after a pause, he said compulsively, "I'm sorry."

Peter looked at him and Sylar flinched again as he realized what he'd said. "Would you _stop_ flinching from me?" Peter snapped. Sylar held himself stiffly, like it was an effort not to flinch from his very tone. "I'm not going to _hit_ you." There was a pause while Sylar regarded him. Peter knew what he had to be thinking, of the times when he **had** hit him in the mental prison, so he looked away and added guiltily, "Anymore." Peter didn't like the feeling he'd engaged in misconduct, so he waved his hand vaguely and tried to blow it off by saying, "That was all just in your head, anyway. It's not like any of that was real."

"It felt real," Sylar said immediately. "To me."

Peter's eyes snapped up to his and this time Sylar didn't look away. He looked back at him evenly until it was Peter that looked aside, blinking. Peter rubbed his hand unconsciously. All he could think of was how his hand had hurt every time he struck the other man. _Peter_ had hurt… and he wasn't the one being hit or verbally abused or confronted and made to back down. He wasn't the one who flinched and cringed like a dog that had been whipped too many times. Peter turned his head aside and breathed harder, feeling himself flush with sudden shame as the reality of the methodical and mostly psychological torture he'd dealt out came home to him in a rush.

Peter looked up, eyes stinging and said, heartfelt, "I'm sorry."

Sylar stared at him with no change in expression. Peter realized what he'd said a second later and this time _Peter _cringed. His mind was full of his own words, telling Sylar that 'I'm sorry' didn't change anything - it wasn't good enough, no mere words would gain him forgiveness, no matter how heartfelt or contrite. Faced with the realization that he might never be able to redeem himself for all the unwarranted mistreatment he'd heaped on the other man in that nightmare, where Sylar had no choice but to take it or suffer the even worse punishment of eternal loneliness, Peter felt his very soul shrink. He felt smaller, worthless and insignificant. It was a supreme irony and he deserved every bit of it and more.

A hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed. He looked up at Sylar's face. The other man said quietly, "Apology accepted."

Peter felt a weight lift and he could suddenly breathe again. His eyes widened. After years of suffering - three alone, more at Peter's hands… '_apology accepted_.' It was hard to believe. Peter looked away, blinking, trying to regain his composure.

Sylar patted his shoulder and said, "We'll need something to turn into gold. Rocks will do, or chunks of asphalt. Let's just walk along the sidewalk here and see what we can find, okay?"

Peter nodded, glad of the excuse to keep his face down for the time being.

* * *

An hour later, they walked out of the jewelry store with enough legitimate cash to meet Sylar's needs for the immediate future. Their next stop was a furniture shop. It took longer to find a couch that suited them than Peter had expected, but they made their purchase and arranged for a late afternoon delivery.

After that was lunch. By this time, the awkwardness that had grown up since standing in front of the jewelry store had faded. Sylar really, truly didn't seem to be carrying a grudge, much as Peter himself now thought he deserved it. They grabbed sub sandwiches and talked about the weather, traffic and clothing styles for a while - a light, neutral conversation. Somehow that segued into Sylar asking about the time Peter had mentioned earlier on the phone to his mother - when the Company had held him confined for months in a cell.

Peter had never talked to anyone about that, because no one had ever asked. There were a lot of things in his life, recently, that he'd never talked about, kept bottled up, because there was no one close enough to him to tell. At first Peter gave nothing but the bare facts - what had happened, when and where and who. But Sylar kept asking questions, probing, gently picking at Peter's attempts to stay impartial, asking what he thought of what had happened, how he felt about things…

Once Peter got started, he ranted for nearly two hours, waving his arms and raising his voice, jumping up to pace and at times to hammer his fist on the table. He was sure the other patrons of the sandwich shop thought he was nuts, because he knew that some of the things he was saying were ill advised. Sylar didn't shush him or try to calm him - he just listened. The only reason he stopped was because he realized they were going to be late to meet his mother. They still didn't have a passport photo. They had to stop and get one along the way. Like everything else, it took longer than expected.

They ended up arriving a good half hour late, which was unconscionable in Angela Petrelli's book. They both knew this. At the moment though, neither cared. They walked up to the house together and Peter had never felt so much like he had a brother at his side as that moment. Nathan had always had an odd role in his life – half father, half brother and all role model. Sylar was no role model and while walking next to him, Peter didn't feel like he needed to be more like him or that he needed to earn his approval. They were simply together and that was comfortingly familiar somehow, after all those years with no one else.

Sylar had intermittently aped Nathan throughout the day. Peter had decided it was unintentional and uncontrollable, just like confusing Nathan's memories for his own. He had also decided it didn't bother him anymore, because it didn't. But when Peter knocked at the door, Sylar's skin crawled and for a moment Peter saw his brother in actuality.

The taller man growled and grabbed at his face. With an obvious effort shifted back into his natural form. Sylar looked up at him under heavy brows, probably concerned that he'd ruined the rapport they'd formed. Actually looking like Nathan was an offense he'd never committed in the prison, for which both were thankful. Peter's assaults were usually brief – one blow and he stopped, point made. He was pretty sure that, had that kind of shape-shift happened behind the Wall, Peter's response would have been something other than 'brief.' Peter reached over casually at Sylar's cautious look at him and jogged him with his elbow. "For a moment there, buddy, you stopped looking butt-ugly."

Sylar stared at him with comically wide eyes, then burst out laughing and slung an arm over Peter's shoulders as the younger man joined in. That was how Angela found them when she opened the door - laughing hysterically and leaning on one another for support.


	7. Tea Time

Peter's mother was not amused. Under other circumstances, as the dutiful son who really did love his mother despite all the awful things she'd done, Peter would have felt chastised by her icy gaze. But he'd very recently dredged up all those awful things, and only last night he'd seen Sylar save Emma and thereby thousands, against her advice. As far as he could tell, that last was because she'd rather see any number of people killed than see Sylar walk free, redeemed or not. Even at his most angry, Peter wouldn't have made that trade.

He might have even been able to feel sympathy for her at least on that last – after all, as little as a few days before he'd thought Sylar's death would serve the world well – except that _she_ had been the one to orchestrate that atrocity of trying to force Sylar to become his brother. It was not lost on Peter that had she gotten her way, he'd have never known Nathan was dead and the man he'd still look up to, warmly embrace, support and look for support from, for years to come, would have been Sylar inside, on some level. Not only was that an unfathomable punishment on Sylar, but the level of deception it inflicted on all of Nathan's loved ones was profound – not just his brother, but his sons, estranged wife, and Claire.

And so when Angela opened the door and gazed disapprovingly at Peter and Sylar's mirth, it only set Peter off even more. He broke into new gales of laughter and the more dismayed she looked by his behavior, the more hilarious it was. Infectious as it was and already laughing, Sylar couldn't help but join in.

Very shortly, Angela's face went from angry to livid and then, oddly, to mortified and ashamed. When she could take no more of this humiliation, she turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving the door hanging open behind her. Slowly, still wracked with giggles and snorts, the two men's laughter subsided and they staggered inside. Peter led the way to the parlor and collapsed in a chair, wiping at his eyes and chuckling. Telekinetically, Sylar summoned the tissue box to himself, withdrew a couple and then physically tossed the box to Peter, bouncing it off his lap. Peter grabbed at it and yanked a few out for his eyes.

After getting himself somewhat back under control, Peter stared at the ceiling and said, "I needed that. She's going to kill me, but at least I'll die happy."

Sylar snorted. "She's not going to _kill_ you, Peter. That woman can devise tortures far worse than mere physical death."

Peter rolled his head to the side and looked at Sylar for a moment, then back up. "Point taken."

"Remember that time when…" Sylar paused. Peter looked at him again. Sylar coughed and went on, obviously changing his word choice a little, "when Nathan took you out to the boardwalk and then a movie without telling anyone, and she thought you'd been kidnapped or run off? She was worried all day long." He grinned. Peter chuckled and nodded. "The hell we-, I mean I, shit! _**You**_, and _**Nathan**_, caught." Sylar pursed his lips, annoyed with himself.

"You really can't stop that, can you?"

"No! And I'm _trying_, Peter. I really am."

"I know. I've figured that out. Sorry it took me so long."

"You always were a little slow."

"Hey!" Peter grabbed up the tissue box and flung it at Sylar, who, to his surprise, let it hit him. He could have easily caught it with telekinesis. If he could stop bullets, then he could stop boxes hurled in mild outrage.

Sylar just laughed and used telekinesis after the fact to scoop up the fallen box and replace it on the end table he'd swiped it from originally. He sighed. "It's not like Nathan's memories come with labels. It's like… think of all the things you've done in your life. Now imagine all the things that happened on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays happened to someone else. They still _seem_ like your memories, no matter what day they happened on. I have to really stop and think about it, because something happens and it sparks a memory and it seems so _normal_... Maybe it will straighten out after a little while. It's only been a month or so. I'm getting better," he finished apologetically. Peter nodded.

At that point, Angela came to the entrance, carrying a tray with cups and, of all things, cookies. She paused and looked between them. "If you've composed yourselves, I thought we might have some tea."

Peter nodded. He thought about apologizing. He didn't. His mother lifted one cup and glanced at Sylar, obviously about to hand it to him. She stopped though and just seemed to freeze in place for so long that Peter looked to see if Sylar was holding her telekinetically. But the other man looked as baffled as Peter was. She seemed merely lost in thought, like something had struck her in the middle of the action and now she was absorbed by her contemplation.

"Ma?" Peter said. It had the desired effect. She twitched, coming back to reality, and looked down at the cup. She frowned resentfully at it and offered it to Sylar, who leaned forward and took it. She handed one to Peter and then took up her own. Sylar was studying his drink, brows drawn together.

She regarded him and said archly, "You came here for my help. If you can not accept even refreshments from me, then you may as well leave now."

"Tell me it's not poisoned," Sylar said, reminding Peter the man could detect lies.

"No." Angela drew herself up a little more stiffly, which was an impressive accomplishment given how unyielding she already was. "I will not."

Peter tried to smile, but the tension in the room made his expression only fleeting. He offered, "You can trade cups with me if you want."

Sylar shrugged and shook his head. He said, "Iocane powder," and took a generous drink, eyes never leaving Angela's face.

"Inconceivable," Peter muttered. Sylar choked on his tea, coughing and sputtering. Peter snickered that he'd managed to time that one right.

When Sylar could breathe again, he shot Peter a look that might have been murderous under other circumstances, but Peter let it roll off without effect. Sylar pointed at him and said, "I'm supposed to be worried about _her_ killing me with the tea, not _you!_"

Peter pulled his best innocent face. "You started it."

Sylar shook his head and rolled his eyes. He set his drink aside though.

Angela harrumphed, probably not getting the reference, but noticing that much of the tension had defused. She picked up the plate of cookies and offered Peter one, then Sylar. They both took one to be polite, though neither was hungry. She took a seat and arranged herself meticulously.

Peter pulled out the passport pictures and put them on the coffee table. "We got pictures. So what now?"

Angela sipped her tea, considering what Peter had said. She regarded Sylar coolly over the brim of her cup. Finally she said, "I'll pass those along to the right people. I should have identification by this time tomorrow. But there are answers I will need before I can do that."

She took another sip and ate half her cookie - either in no hurry, or wanting to annoy her audience by making them wait. Peter and Sylar exchanged a look, then waited patiently. After long enough, she narrowed her eyes at Sylar and asked, "What are you going to do with yourself, Sylar? Are you going to go back to being Gabriel Grey, move back to Brooklyn and resume working for your uncle? Perhaps you could find a nice young woman to marry and have children with." Her voice fairly dripped with disdain. "How droll. How _normal_." She gave a small shrug with one shoulder. "You never seemed the type for it."

He smiled at her slyly, the same expression he'd given Peter in the cab when Peter had asked about whether Claire was going to be safe. "No, I don't like to think that I am." He let his eyes wander the far wall for a moment before continuing, "But that's what I want the identification to read – Gabriel Grey, son of Martin and Virginia, former watchmaker – all true. I want everything on it to be true." At that last he met her eyes decisively.

"Everything?" she asked. He nodded at her. She lifted her brows slightly. "You _do_ know that Gabriel Grey is still wanted for questioning for the death of his mother? I am sure if that investigation revealed anything inappropriate, a link might be made between her murder and that of-"

"Homicide," Sylar cut in.

"What?"

He elaborated, "She wasn't murdered. Murder involves malice aforethought. It was an accident – not premeditated. I know; I was there, and if you doubt my recollection ask Hiro Nakamura, who witnessed it. The worst I should suffer for _that_ is a sentence for involuntary manslaughter. Don't forget - I have all of Nathan's legal knowledge at my disposal. I know what I'm guilty of and the usual sentence. For _that_, for _**her**_, I bear little responsibility. It is for others that I should suffer."

Peter eyed him uneasily, not sure what to make of that. Sylar's tone had become clipped and authoritative. He sounded like Nathan did when he argued a court case. He had even leaned back, one leg casually crossing the other in an affectation of disinterest, a posture he'd seen his brother take up frequently when he was trying to goad someone.

If Angela recognized the shadow of her son's behavior in his killer's body language, she didn't show it. Instead, his attempt to provoke her seemed to be hitting the mark. Her lip curled slightly. "You killed your _own mother_, Sylar, and then you painted a _mural_ with her _blood_."

"The painting was not a voluntary decision on my part, a characteristic that could be argued for many of the killings I committed soon after my ability was induced." He tipped his head to her. "Such induction and activation, including facilitation of the first killing, having been carried out by your very own Company. You were a member of the board of directors at that point, and thereby ultimately responsible for the Company's policies and actions, were you not?"

Her face froze.

Sylar went on, "If you doubt the influence of my ability upon the sanity and self control of a person, I will point out that your own son here," he gestured lazily at Peter, "attempted to kill _you_, shortly after the inducement of that ability. Again," he dipped his head, "such inducement was facilitated and suggested by _you_."

"He saved your life, Ma," Peter added, not entirely sure whose side he needed to be taking here.

"I know what happened!" she hissed at him, barely able to contain herself. She turned back to Sylar. "You killed my son!"

"Self defense," Sylar said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He attacked me. As far as anyone can prove, I was doing nothing dangerous at the time." Peter stiffened in his seat, lips thinning, but he kept his mouth shut. Sylar was playing his mother, something he'd rarely seen done, by anyone.

"You're a monster!" she said, standing.

Sylar leaned forward slightly in his seat. "And how do you think poor Bridget would see _you_, after you locked her in a cell with me while I was in Level 5? You _had_ to be able to hear her screaming as you walked away. At that point, I probably could have controlled myself, but after a certain number of killings, you get a bit numb. Is that what happened to you, I wonder…_**'Ma'?**_" He stared at her, his gaze implacable and giving not an inch.

Angela stared back at him, the outrage on her face giving way to horror.

Sylar leaned back in his seat, raised his cup and took another drink, a faint smile playing across his lips. Angela was shaking with emotion. Silence held for nearly a minute, before she sank slowly back into her seat, looking away and regaining her composure.

Peter sipped his tea, feeling not at all sorry for her. He hadn't known that his mother had any role in deliberately arranging to put specials in Sylar's path. He'd suspected, sure, but never known. Whoever Bridget was, it sounded like Angela had brought her to Sylar's cell and locked her in with him – a chilling and frightening prospect. Sylar could lay part of the blame for his death toll at the feet of his ability, constantly urging and provoking. Peter couldn't think of any similar excuse his mother could make for what she'd done, confining someone with Sylar, knowing what he would do to them.

Sylar put both feet on the floor and sat up. He put his elbows on his knees and sighed. "I want everything on the identification to be true. I'm going to confess what I've done – all of it. I'll leave you both out of it." He shrugged. "Except insomuch as you tried to stop me, and I didn't allow it."

Peter put his cup down. "You… they'll lock you up!"

"Maybe – maybe not. I know who to approach." He pulled the four business cards Claire had given him from his pocket and regarded them. "Claire…" He shook his head. "She had the right idea, but she didn't know what she was getting into. I can take her place. I can give her another chance, so she can accomplish her goal without having to give up her life." He looked up at Peter. "There's no proof that was her on the Ferris wheel last night." He shifted shape rapidly into Claire, then back to himself. Angela gasped, but said nothing. Sylar glanced at her.

"You would sacrifice yourself for her?" Angela said, wonderingly.

Sylar shrugged. "I have memories of her as my daughter," he said, looking down. "And of how you talked Nathan into giving her up before she was born, when he first found out he was a father, then how you duped him into thinking she'd died, all those years ago. She doesn't have any leverage with the government or any experience navigating bureaucracy. She doesn't know what rights she has or what she's legally entitled to. I do."

"You don't have to do that," Peter said.

"Everything's changed, Peter. My range of abilities is unparalleled. I truly am special. If I pitch this the right way, I'm sure I'll get a stay of execution at least. They won't risk losing a limited resource. Claire's the only one they know about for sure and I can distract them from her to me. My cooperation will be more valuable to them than finding my limits. These won't be clandestine Company scientists who already understand abilities, who have no reason to preserve their test subjects and every reason to destroy them. It will be a larger organization, operating in the open, who have to answer to the public. Claire's blown this wide open. There will be Senate committees and agencies and organizations and corporations who all want a piece of this. If they have only one subject, they're not going to throw me into a hole somewhere and brick over it."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Peter's face as he remembered his thought that morning of Sylar's love of dramatics. This would make him the center of attention – a position he'd craved all his life, wanting to be somebody, to be somebody special and influential. Strangely, this was exactly what he wanted – an opportunity to use his powers in front of adoring, or at least attentive, masses. "You don't know for sure this is going to turn out well for you."

"And what if it doesn't, Peter?" Sylar studied Peter's face. "What loss is it if I finally pay penance for the actual murders I've committed? Make no mistake, there were many I killed because I wanted to, because they were inconvenient to me, and because I'd become numb and insensitive to the value of life after having been forced to take it so often. I _deserved_ what Matt did and probably worse. If anyone should take this risk, I should. I need to be monitored. I need to be controlled."

Peter looked at him intently. "What you _need_ is to think this through before you do anything rash."

Sylar nodded. "Of course. I want to at least sleep once on that couch we bought." He chuckled. "And," he said, gesturing at Angela, "I want to wait until I have all my paperwork in order, give the government a while to examine the interviews Claire gave, that sort of thing."

Angela gave him a reserved nod. She leaned forward and took the pictures from the coffee table, examining them carefully. "I'll have everything together tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you," he said. She gazed at him levelly past the photographs, lips tight, and said nothing in response.

Peter put his cup down and straightened in the tense silence. They'd gotten what they wanted – it was time to leave before things screwed up. He said, "I need to get to work soon. Let's take off so we can get you a phone and a change of clothes – this shape shifting thing doesn't feel right. Then I want to drop by the apartment and make sure Claire's good. She might be up by now."

Sylar nodded. "I need to talk to her about what she said in the interviews, so I'm prepared." He stood and gave a mocking half-bow to Peter's mother. "Angela, thank you for tea. I'll see you tomorrow."

They headed out.


	8. A New Day Dawns

It took a while to get the couch maneuvered into the apartment. The delivery people wouldn't bring it up the stairs and they'd picked one long enough that it didn't fit in the elevator. Peter upgraded for telekinesis at Sylar's suggestion. It was kind of useful to have him around, Peter reflected. He was a deep well of different abilities Peter could dip into. As tempting as it was to just levitate the thing all the way up, they had to make it at least _look_ like they were using their muscles. Claire gave directions and watched. There was a degree of jostling and cursing involved even though they had powers. Eventually, they got it where they wanted it.

Peter didn't have time after that to do more than grab his bag and leave for work, yelling a vague good-bye to both of them before hustling out the door. It banged shut behind him. It wasn't until he was on the street below that he realized he'd left Sylar and Claire alone with each other. He hesitated and looked up, picking out his window and worrying. It wasn't that he didn't trust them, but they had the potential to provoke one another. There were a lot of emotions between the pair and most of them weren't good.

He'd just have to see.

He went to work. He'd known he had a double shift, which meant sixteen straight hours in the ambulance, through the evening and early morning, not getting off work until eight AM the next day. Poor sleep the night before, followed by a busy morning, meant he was absolutely dead on his feet when he was done. He came home hoping the place was still intact, hoping Sylar hadn't gotten into any trouble, because if he had, Peter was going to have a hard time responding.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and walked in to see Sylar struggling awake and up from the couch, one hand thrown out in front of himself defensively. Adrenalin flooded Peter's system and he dodged to the side, yelling, "Hey!" He felt the dragging tendrils of telekinesis wash over him and dissipate, never firming up to a grip. Sylar's sleepy eyes darted from him to the door, then around the room like he was uncertain of where he was. Having apparently gotten his bearings, he finished sitting up and let his hand fall, sagging. Peter reached over and shut the door. "You okay, man?" He was relieved to find him still here, even if had woken badly.

Sylar nodded, running a hand through his rumpled hair and then across his face. He was dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and pajama pants - things he'd picked up during their detour the previous day through a Wal-Mart. He turned and put his feet on the floor, trying to pull himself together.

"You look like you had nearly as long a night as I did," Peter observed, dropping his bag off on a chair. He walked over to Sylar and put a hand on his shoulder. The other man looked up at him blankly. Peter took healing from him, curious as to whether Sylar would object. He glanced down at Peter's hand, feeling the exchange, then away, uncaring. Peter took a deep breath, feeling the ability wash away a little of the exhaustion, but not all of it.

"You still need sleep," Sylar said, guessing at Peter's purpose. "Just not as much of it."

"Yeah, but it gets rid of this cut on my arm." Peter reached back and pulled a bandage off the back of his upper arm. "We were taking a patient out in a stair chair and I caught my arm on a nail or something on the doorframe." He walked over to take a seat next to the table. "So, how did last night go, with Claire?"

Sylar snorted and flopped back down on the couch. Now he raised both hands to his face and scrubbed. "Fine, I guess. We ate dinner together at that little pizza place down the street."

"Really?" Peter was pleasantly surprised to hear that Sylar had had a normal interaction with her - both that Sylar had managed it and she had allowed it. Honestly, he wouldn't have automatically blamed Sylar if things had gone badly. "Did she tell you what she told the reporters?"

"Yeah, more or less. She lied to me about a few things, but I didn't think they were important so I didn't push it. Once we got my phone working, she called her dad and he came to pick her up. They'll lay low for a while."

"You saw Noah too?" Another pleasant surprise - Noah had looked daggers at Sylar the one time he'd laid eyes on him at the carnival. Peter had been sure that had Noah not been so busy worrying about Claire and Samuel, something would have happened between him and Sylar. If he'd played nice with Sylar the night before, it meant Claire had vouched for him, if only a little. A slow smile crept across Peter's face. It was a start, a good start, towards normal interactions with people.

"Yeah. Noah says they're - Homeland Security, that is - holding Samuel as a suspected terrorist right now. They're going to try to put together a case against him for the two hundred and forty-three deaths in that town he destroyed."

"God, that's a lot of people."

Sylar snorted. "More in one act than I've killed total. More than triple, actually." He shook his head. "Kind of puts me in perspective."

Peter jumped up and paced suddenly. "Perspective? You want some fucking perspective? I came this far," he held his fingers an inch or two apart, "from releasing a virus that would have killed 93% or so of the world's population. _Billions!_" He took an agitated step towards Sylar, sweeping his arm out to the side dramatically. "_**Billions!**_" Peter couldn't find any words to express his emotions about that, so he went back to pacing. His most common nightmare, _before_ getting stuck in Sylar's head, was that he'd wake up in a world where nearly everyone was dead and it was all his fault.

"Huh," Sylar said because, really, he didn't know what to say to that either. A few score people were nothing in comparison. He got up and walked into the kitchen. "You want coffee?"

Peter scooped up Sylar's blanket and tossed it to the opposite end of the couch. He sat down. "I dunno. I want it, you know, but maybe I need to catch a couple hours sleep. Did anything else interesting happen?"

"I flew to Delaware and Florida, showed off my abilities to a couple senators, pretended to be Nathan, and have an appointment tonight in Virginia with some folks with the NSA - Gregg Dawson. I'm circumventing Homeland Security for the moment. Darryl is a dick and I don't want to deal with him."

Peter blinked at the entrance to the kitchen, the direction Sylar's voice came from. "Oh…kay. You _did_ have a busy night." Peter scratched at his chin. "Anything you need help with?"

"No. Everything's going okay for now." Sylar tinkered around. "Did you eat anything? There's some leftover pizza in here."

"No, I didn't. Pizza sounds good."

"Hot or cold?"

"Cold's fine."

Sylar carted the box out to him and went back in the kitchen, saying, "I've been telling them I swapped with Nathan shortly after Danko 'discovered' Sylar last year, so Danko's report of Nathan having an ability will read as me. That should clean Nathan's record. I said I blackmailed him to stay out of things and let me take his place, but I didn't have anything to do with the plane crash. That also means it was me levitating in front of the president's aides at the Stanton Hotel. I told them you didn't know it was me. I'll be telling the full story tonight to Dawson. I need to sit down and talk through it with someone - you?" He stuck his head out of the kitchen for a moment and Peter nodded at him, "Yeah, you'd be good, so I get all the details straight. It might help to write out a timeline too."

This sounded like something that would take more active brain cells than Peter had at the moment. "Can I get some sleep first?" Peter started on his second piece of pizza. He was pretty sure two pieces was all he wanted to eat.

"Yeah, of course."

"How are you going to explain knowing everything Nathan did?"

"I don't know. I was thinking maybe I'd go find Matt and get his ability. Telepathy would be really useful. Then I could just claim I had it all along."

Peter choked. Sylar walked out with a cup of coffee, looking perfectly calm, like he wasn't discussing murder. Peter stared at him. Sylar shoved the blanket to the middle of the couch and sat on the other end. Peter was still staring at him. Sylar said, "What?"

"You're… Matt?" He couldn't put the words 'going to kill' in between. While he could understand a desire for revenge, Sylar hadn't shown any vindictiveness before, and… why would he be telling Peter like it was the most normal thing in the world? He shook his head. "I'm not thinking straight. You're going to go take Matt's ability?"

"Yeah." He looked at Peter's expression and suddenly laughed. "I'm not going to _kill _him, Pete! Remember? I have your ability too now."

"Oh!" Suddenly it made sense.

"All I need to do is touch him. It's not like _you_ ever ask permission. Shouldn't be that hard, even if he won't cooperate. Ability nullification is nice, but telepathy will have more application for what I'm going to do. It would probably take me two or three hours to fly to California, same to return. I'd be back in time to go meet your mother this afternoon and get my ID."

Peter finished his pizza and set the box aside. "Okay. How about I call him first and try to talk him into it, instead of you showing up out of the blue and mugging him for it?" He chortled at the image that brought to mind - Matt taking out the garbage or something, Sylar flying out from behind a bush and grabbing him briefly, then flying away before Matt could really respond. Poor guy.

Sylar shrugged. "If you want to. I'll have plenty of time in-flight to think about my cover story." He seemed excited about things, and happy.

Peter rolled his eyes and took the rest of the pizza back to the kitchen. "Okay, hero. I'm going to catch some z's. Leave your phone number around here somewhere in case I need to call you." He paused at the door to his bedroom, looking back at the other man. Forty-eight hours ago he'd hated him. Now he trusted him implicitly. Yeah, reality in Peter's world was pretty damn flexible, alright.

* * *

Six weeks later, things were starting to settle down. Sylar's attempt to protect Claire and keep her out of it had eventually unraveled, partly because it was **her** phone they'd been tracking, but mostly because Claire had blurted out the truth when interviewed. The government had interviewed all sorts of people, Peter included, and there had been something of a crackdown. A lot of specials who lived criminal lifestyles found themselves having to answer for their behavior. Those who hadn't, though, were generally free to live their lives, though they were being monitored.

The carnival had disbanded, but most of the members had been hired into a live performance troupe by the Linderman Group. They were putting on shows in Vegas now and were in high demand. Peter had heard they were being paid obscene amounts of money. He'd also heard that the drama and infighting among them was terrible. He stayed clear. He'd still managed to conceal that he had an ability at all. So had his mother, and Emma. He was dating her now.

Sylar's early cooperation had weighed heavily in his favor in how he was treated by the authorities, but he was still a multiple murderer on a scale no one really wanted to contemplate. They couldn't lock him up and toss away the key, because he was too damn useful (identifying abilities, demonstrating them, lie detection, mind reading, an infinite supply of gold…). It wouldn't do for the public to know the government was working with a serial killer of his magnitude - it was easier to say he _wasn't_ a serial killer than to quit working with him. He didn't have to bury his past, because the government did it for him.

That wasn't to say he didn't have five different agencies who owned a piece of him. His life was almost as proscribed as it would have been as an inmate, but much more varied. It was kind of ironic that he was never, ever alone now - his guards weren't really there to keep him in (they had no illusions about their ability to stop him, should he desire escape), but mostly to make sure no one else got to him without authorization. Of course they'd report if he made a run for it, but he seemed content. He got to have visitors.

After Claire's second exposition came out, Peter's friendship with Sylar became a known quantity. Once or twice every week he'd make the hour drive down to where Sylar lived now and they'd talk, play Scrabble or basketball or watch movies (yes, Sylar had a TV, along with a variety of other amenities to keep him happy - as jail cells went, he had the Club Med treatment).

On this afternoon, Peter and Sylar were sitting on the bench next to the basketball court after a particularly grueling match. Sylar's 'bodyguard' was on the other side of the court, paying no attention to them. Sylar spoke, "You know, something I never understood… Claire still doesn't like me."

Peter shrugged. "So?"

Sylar rubbed absently at the spot on his forearm that had once featured a tattoo of her face. "Lydia's power was supposed to lead me to…" he shrugged, "someone who loved me." His brows drew together.

Peter reached over with his elbow and poked the other man. "I think it did."

"Ow." Sylar poked him back, harder. "What do you mean? I've tried to get her come visit, but she won't. I think she told everyone about her ability the second time just to make sure she threw a wrench in my plans."

"Yeah, probably so." Peter reached over this time with his hand and shoved Sylar.

"Would you stop that?" Sylar shoved him back harder, looking annoyed.

Peter grinned. "You want me to, huh? Make me." He punched Sylar's shoulder and they began fighting in a friendly fashion. The security guard watched them. They'd done this before and while it had been alarming at first, he blew it off now. After a few minutes of scuffling, one ceded victory to the other and they went back to sitting next to each other.

"Love comes in a lot of different flavors," Peter said.

"She doesn't _love_ me," Sylar said.

"Yeah, but I do."

Sylar stared at him, blinking rapidly, putting the pieces together in his mind.

Peter shrugged. "It's platonic, but come on - why else do you think I'm driving down here every weekend to see you? You're worth it. You deserve it. I love you, man." He reached out and punched Sylar lightly on the shoulder.

Sylar looked down at the ground and said, "Huh." Peter could see a huge, silly grin starting to spread across the other man's face.

"And you say _I'm_ slow," Peter said, smirking.

"Hey!" Sylar said, head snapping up, and once again, they were fighting.

**A/N: This is the end. Thank you all for your many reviews! Please, please, please leave one, especially if you haven't reviewed the other chapters. Reviews encourage me so much in my writing. I'd have never picked this story back up and finished it if it weren't for the continuing reviews and story alerts people were putting on it. I hope you enjoyed it! (And my goodness - when you've written as much slash as I have, doing a good platonic buddy fic of these two guys is **_**tough!**_**)**

**Please Review!**

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